The Marksman
by Misaia
Summary: Eames is ordered to dispose of Arthur due to some sensitive information that Arthur has recently gained access to that could put Eames's employers in jeopardy. He polishes his sniper rifle, looks through the scope into Arthur's bedroom window, and stays the trigger. "Good Lord, Mr. Darling," he muttered, loosening his collar just a tad. "What a bloody gorgeous sight you are."
1. Chapter 1

The manila folder that the man slid across the table to Eames was thick, crammed to bursting with files and photographs and documents, and Eames took his time reviewing them, arranging them on the table neatly so that he could see the relevant information on every paper. The mark's name was Arthur Darling, and he couldn't help but smile at the surname emblazoned across every document. Granted, the organisation's information wasn't quite as good as it could have been, and the "Darling" could have been a substitute for an actual last name that they didn't have access to, but even Eames knew it couldn't be terribly hard to open a mark's letterbox and examine their credit card statements or whatnot.

And if this were the case, well, he'd have to say that it really was quite a fitting adjective. This particular Arthur was a perfectly lovely specimen of humanity who apparently enjoyed wearing well-tailored suits and vests and had a penchant for making sure his shirtsleeves were rolled up and creased neatly. He had an innocent brown curl that tumbled wayward across his forehead that no amount of gel could manage to keep restrained, and, all in all, he looked like a very unassuming, very unthreatening, very handsome person. Perfectly darling, as it were. Eames was of the opinion that the man was most likely a banker. Or a lawyer. Something of the sort. Perhaps a postman? He'd just started to envision Arthur in a well-fitted polo and matching cap, a messenger bag haphazardly slung over his shoulder, tossing out the daily newspaper, when the man across from him began to speak.

"As you may know, we have reason to believe that this...Mr. Darling has some information regarding the Tennyson operative," the man said, his fingers steepled in front of him. "We would like you to get it back, using whatever means possible. From his file, you may see that he isn't a particularly important person in the grand scale of things, just some junior partner at a law firm or something of the sort, so it most likely wouldn't be too horrible if you somehow...disposed of him, as it were. Owing to the sensitive nature of the information, we would like it if you completed this task as soon as possible, Mr. Eames."

"Right. Consider it done," Eames agreed, carefully taking note of an address on one of the documents before sliding the papers back into the manila folder and standing up.

* * *

Arthur thought that quite possibly he would expire in his swivel-back chair at Harvey, Kettering, and Mudd, Esq. Though having been assured that being made a junior partner in the law firm was a good thing, and that his salary would double, triple, possibly even quadruple from his days as a paralegal, he was inclined to believe that perhaps it wasn't worth it. His desk at present was a swamp of papers and legal textbooks that had seen better days, and had probably seen better owners as well (Arthur's cup of coffee enjoyed falling over and splashing black across the pages, in particular Roe v. Wade, the text for that particular entry had been blotted dry several hundred times over). Arthur often got there at seven in the morning and ended up leaving at approximately seven-thirty at night, always begging off Ariadne's attempts to take him out somewhere nice, and he usually headed home and dialed in an order for a curry.

It was a boring job, a boring life, and Arthur thought that perhaps the condoms he kept in his nightstand drawer were probably growing cobwebs by now. It was a rather sorry state of affairs.

In addition, there had recently been some fuss over a rather large and intensive set of contracts, written up by some M. Tennyson and which Arthur had had the misfortune of taking responsibility of. The thick file had been passed around the office at least three times before Arthur found it stuffed in his file cabinet, and when he turned around, the offending stack of papers in his hand, everyone had begged off and named some obscure case that they had to research for something; at this point, Andrew Kettering, one of the senior partners in the firm, had informed him that every other junior partner and every other paralegal was, in fact, busy with researching some obscure case or another, and that Arthur just had the luck to have finished tidying up his previous engagements. Arthur had opened his mouth to protest, but Kettering's fierce look had cowed him into submission, and as a result, he spent most of his time at work poring over the intensive legalese and trying to make sense of all of it.

In fact, today had been particularly bad.

He'd slammed his hand in his file cabinet at least three times, Ariadne had spent almost the entire day yapping about her new boyfriend (who, from the pictures, looked quite the decent fellow), and Roe v. Wade had seen the back of yet another black coffee. He'd found himself falling asleep at his desk trying to work through page 3 of the first contract, something involving subsidies and joint ventures and parent companies. When he finally walked through the door of his flat, loosening his tie and tossing it over the coat rack, he sank into his favourite armchair by the television, dialed his favourite curry shop, and found to his dismay that said place had just run out of curry, and would he be so kind as to try again tomorrow?

He found himself burying his face in his hands, tugging at his hair and wanting to cry. What kind of curry shop ran out of curry? But since he was Arthur Darling the Fourth, he did not cry. He had not wept since he was five (unless you counted that one incident when he was 12 and had nearly been trampled by a horse, or the time when he was 17 and had a sudden revelation while eating a sandwich that he actually was not physically attracted to girls).

And, of course, being Arthur Darling the Fourth, he took the situation into his own hands, and boiled water for an old Cup of Noodles he found in the back of his rather empty pantry. He wondered bleakly if the spiders spinning cobwebs around his nightstand condoms were possibly having feasts in his kitchen cupboards as well, because surely he'd had more food than this. His lackluster search of the fridge also turned up nothing spectacular: an onion, which was turning green on one side, a half-empty bottle of ketchup, and a loaf of bread that Arthur felt sure had probably been around since the start of the year.

After dinner, Arthur padded off to his bathroom for a shower, during which he rested his forehead against the salmon pink tiles and wondered what he was doing with his life.

He lay down in bed afterwards, enjoying the feel of the cool sheets against his bare skin, and stared up at the popcorn ceiling of his flat and contemplated the rusty grey water stain in the shape of California that had started spreading on the ceiling by the balcony window. The moon was shining all silvery into his bedroom, and it fell over him in a shaft of light, turning his skin pearly.

It was not even 11 PM yet, according to the red digital numbers on the clock on Arthur's nightstand, and he shrugged, supposing it was as good a time as any, before reaching down and wrapping a hand around himself.

* * *

Eames, in the meantime, had taken to lying on his stomach on the rooftop of the building opposite Arthur's. He hummed to himself as he peered through his rifle scope. The night vision adapter turned everything an eerie, neon shade of green, and Eames pulled away for a moment, rubbing at his eyes and taking another glance down at the photograph he'd taken out of the folder.

But my God, if he wasn't a gorgeous man, Eames thought to himself for the umpteenth time that night. He just wanted to dress him up in his fancy suits and press him against his apartment walls and probably try and nail him through the door, that would be excellent, and it was a shame that Mr. Darling here was wrapped up in all this Tennyson flimflammery.

He turned back to his rifle scope, peered through it at the windows in the building across the street. On the third floor, a young woman with her hair wrapped up in a towel was writing at her desk, pausing every few moments to pick up her pages and hold them up, as if checking to make sure the sentences looked all right from all angles. On the fourth floor a mother stood by the window, bouncing her baby in her arms and rubbing its back. Eames quickly scanned the other windows, most of which were dark and had curtains or blinds drawn, flicking past a seventh floor window in which a young man was lying down in bed and quite frankly having a rather energetic go at it -

Wait.

Eames flicked his scope back to said window, squinted through the sight past the vision of the man's hand bobbing up and down, examined his face thoughtfully. He pulled away, looked down at the photograph, looked into the scope again.

"My, my, Mr. Darling," Eames murmured to himself, making a mental note of the window's relative position. "Someone looks like they're having a lovely time..."

He held his fire, reasoning with himself that, if Mr. Darling were one to subscribe to the religious belief that one went to meet some higher being after death looking exactly as you had when you left life, it might be rather embarrassing to appear before said higher being with one's genitalia in hand. It was a bit low, really, to off someone while they were having a wank. And, if Eames were being truthful to himself, Arthur was quite a sight to watch.

He watched Arthur's hand stroking, pulling upwards, a little flick of the wrist to rub the flat of his palm over the head; watched the way Arthur bit at his bottom lip and clutched at the now-wrinkled linens with his other hand. Arthur stopped abruptly, and Eames let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, wondering why he'd paused. Arthur sat up for a moment, manoeuvred himself into a more comfortable position, and Eames had to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle his gasp (and, if he were being well and truly honest with himself, a moan) as he watched through the scope as Arthur pressed two spit slick fingers into himself, his back twisting and his other arm trembling as it braced itself against the headboard.

"Good Lord, Mr. Darling," Eames muttered, loosening his collar just a tad. "What a bloody gorgeous sight you are."

He watched as Arthur's pace picked up, as his hips began to judder forward erratically, and almost bit through his lip at the way Arthur's back arched into a deep bow as he came, leaving faint, barely there smudges on the headboard. Arthur slumped into the pillows for a few moments, and Eames wondered what it would be like to lick the sweat away from his skin, to worry pebbled nipples between his teeth, to nibble at skin drawn tight across the narrow hipbones that fit so deliciously in those tailored slacks Arthur was seen wearing in almost all of the pictures that he currently was in possession of -

Arthur rolled over to grab a tissue and wipe off his headboard, and Eames's gaze quickly focused on a small patch of skin on Arthur's lower back, where something was written in dark calligraphy that he couldn't quite read from this distance. Arthur crumpled the tissue onto the nightstand, heaved the quilt around himself, and curled up to face the window. With the moonlight dancing over Arthur's skin and turning him radiant, Eames wondered if it was blasphemy to say that he looked like Jesus. A particularly handsome Jesus. Surely Eames had earned himself a one-way ticket to Hell for that specific thought.

He sighed, watching as that same errant curl slowly crept its way across Arthur's forehead, and firmly palmed the bulge in the crotch of his pants.

"Mr. Darling," he murmured to himself as he slowly, gently set the rifle down and looked across to the building opposite, to the window where Arthur was, "what a mess we've gotten ourselves into."


	2. Chapter 2

Full Chapter Title: You Mustn't Be Afraid to Dream a Little Bigger, Darling.

* * *

As if things couldn't get any worse, a week later on Friday, Arthur found himself saddled with a new intern/trainee/aspiring lawyer. His already swamped desk was cut in half to make room for said intern/trainee/aspiring lawyer, large stacks of papers pushed across to fit in only fifty percent of the space they were accustomed to. He watched in dismay as Roe v. Wade took another beating, and almost downright pouted when the new intern came in with a box of belongings, which he proceeded to litter around the now-pristine right half of Arthur's desk. The newcomer didn't even have that many deskly possessions, and Arthur was just about to push just a single stack of papers over the line, but Kettering shot him a glare from across the room so fierce that Arthur hastily pulled the stack of papers back to his side of the desk.

"Jolly good to meet you," the new intern said, sticking out a hand that Arthur felt sure might be better suited to chopping logs or handling construction materials than sitting behind a desk and reviewing torts. The hand was connected to a forearm that sported a simple, understated Rolex, and the forearm disappeared into a light-blue paisley-patterned dress shirt. Arthur suppressed a shudder. He despised paisley, considered it right up there with the seven deadly sins. Thou shalt not, under any circumstances, wear paisley. He felt sure it was written in the Bible somewhere. Probably in some obscure book of the Old Testament that nobody actually got around to reading.

Trying to ignore the pattern of the shirt (and failing miserably), Arthur took a glance at the intern's face, plush lips under a perfectly respectable nose under blue eyes that looked like they could be the colour of some ocean next to some far-off country that Arthur had never even thought of. The man was just a tad taller than him, and his hair was styled in a perfectly acceptable manner for the workplace, and under ordinary circumstances Arthur would have even gone so far as to think him quite handsome, but as it were, it was the workplace and the man was wearing paisley.

"I've heard so much about you," the man said, reaching out and taking Arthur's hand, pumping it vigorously up and down. Arthur tried to ignore the warmth of the man's skin.

"You have?" he asked, preening a bit. The days when someone said they'd heard a lot about him had become few and far between. If one even went so far as to mention Arthur Darling the Fourth, the group of friends one was with would look at you blankly and ask you if the Duchess had had another baby, or if one was referring to that one disgraced earl from York, who'd been caught quite a few times at a particular brothel in South Kensington (this was actually correct, but Arthur preferred to distance himself from the actions of his father, and would claim that he was from another branch of the Darling family).

"Oh, loads," the intern agreed, smiling at Arthur. "All As in your A-levels, perfect LSAT score, studied at The University of Cambridge Faculty of Law. Youngest junior partner at Harvey, Kettering, and Mudd."

"Quite right," Arthur agreed, brightening and returning the intern's smile. "But enough about me. You are?"

"I'm Thomas Eames," the intern replied. It was a perfectly lovely name, full and round in one's mouth. "I've just come back to the UK from travelling abroad, taking a few gap years after university to explore the world before I settle down, you know. Just flew back in from Taiwan the other week, in fact."

"Really?" Arthur asked. He'd never even thought of going to Taiwan, or, for that matter, another country. There was just something about spending ages inside a flying death compartment surrounded by strangers on all sides that didn't really appeal to him. Taiwan, though. It sounded exotic, lovely, exciting and new. "Did you have a good time there?"

"Had a fantastic time," Eames agreed. "Lovely place. Although I've got a British palate through and through, the food there didn't quite agree with me. First thing I did at the airport, in fact, was dial in an order for curry."

Arthur couldn't help but laugh. "I know what you mean," he said, and was about to continue on a laudation of his favourite curry place when he caught Kettering's eye again. The senior partner scowled fiercely at him, indicated the vast piles of papers consuming Arthur's desk, and Arthur sighed before sitting down in his swivel-back chair again and patting the one next to him that Ariadne had dragged over, indicating that Eames should sit down. He ignored Ariadne waggling her eyebrows at him from behind Eames's back and mouthing things silently at him ("Tea's a real cheese!" was what he saw, and he shot back a confused look. Ariadne had been trying to communicate to Arthur that the new intern was a real piece*), and turned to Eames, who was watching him intently.

"Well, to be honest, there's not too much for you to do here, but I suppose since you're supposed to be shadowing me or whatnot, I'm obliged to show you what I do here."

Eames nodded eagerly, and Arthur spent the next eight hours explaining to him the obscure research involved in practicing corporate and patent law, and tried to ignore the way Eames's lovely mouth quirked up at the corners every time he spilled something over Roe v. Wade.

* * *

"Bleeding hell," Eames burst out once the door had closed firmly behind Kettering and the office was dark and quiet, save for their desk. "Do you do this every day?"

Arthur looked up from where he was trying to translate page 5 of the Tennyson Contract (page 5 out of almost 500; he had a feeling he'd probably be wheeled into a retirement home clutching page 350). "Do what?" he asked, dumbfounded. "I just got this contract a short while ago. Obviously I've done work on other contracts, as evidenced by these." He indicated the stacks of paper, which, against all logic, seemed to have doubled in size since that morning.

Eames swept his arm around the office. "I mean, do you always stay this late? Good Christ, go home any later and the police will be stopping you asking you why you're out past curfew. You've got that sort of face, you know. So bloody youthful and innocent."

Arthur tried hard not to blush, tried to focus on the way Eames's paisley shirt was absolutely horrendous, but the soft lighting of their desk turned even that most dreaded of fabrics semi-acceptable.

"So I take it you don't have anyone waiting at home for you?" Eames continued, eyeing Arthur from the corner of his eye and smirking at the rosy flush that crept across the planes of Arthur's cheekbones. "I know if I had a dish like you, I'd be terrified about you coming home so late at night."

Arthur almost swooned. It had been ages since he'd been referred to like that (if he was being well and truly honest with him, nobody had ever called him that).

He cleared his throat. "Erm, no," he answered, wondering what it might be like to walk in the door of his apartment and find Eames sitting in his favourite armchair by the television, dialing up for a double order of curry. Well, in Arthur's impromptu fantasy, Eames was sans paisley, and that just led to a whole other fantasy about what he might look like shirtless, probably gloriously tanned and muscled and maybe even tattooed, and that in turn led to more fantasies about how inked skin would taste, if Eames was the type to let him leave bites littered all over his body -

"So I take it you don't have any other obligations tonight?" Eames asked, cutting into Arthur's reverie, and Arthur fanned at himself hurriedly to try and clear away the blush that he felt sure could stop traffic with its brightness. "Because I'd really like to take you out for a drink or two."

"I'm not sure this is entirely appropriate," Arthur began, but Eames just rolled his eyes.

"I'll even change into another shirt to make the experience pleasanter for you," he said, "I've seen you throwing grimaces at the shirt all day," and at that point, Arthur couldn't help but agree.

* * *

Arthur couldn't remember the last time he'd been even remotely intoxicated. And he was currently pleasantly buzzed.

"You alright there?" Eames asked as he laid a heavy hand on Arthur's lower back, sending tingles up Arthur's spine. "Bit of a lightweight, are you? The pretty ones always are."

Arthur giggled a bit, nearly tripping over his own feet as he stumbled up the steps to his apartment building. "I'm good," he agreed. "I feel great. The greatesht in a long time."

Eames smiled, the corners of his mouth quirking up, and Arthur almost fell off the landing as he leaned forward to attempt to find out what those plush lips tasted like.

"Easy there, pet," Eames soothed, opening the door for Arthur. "There's plenty of time for that sort of thing."

"D'you think we could have shex?" Arthur asked rather bluntly, turning to look up at him. At the two hims. But that just meant double the excitement, didn't it? At least that's how it always worked out in some of the more racy movies.

Eames looked highly amused as he herded Arthur into the lift. He pinned Arthur against the elevator wall, and Arthur thought that quite possibly this would be the best way to die, being smothered against the wall of a lift by Mr. Thomas Eames in a striped shirt, whose mouth was barely five centimeters away from Arthur's and who smelt like the world's best aftershave, spicy and smoky and clean. Eames bent down just a tad, his mouth just barely brushing against Arthur's, and Arthur tried to press forward, but Eames pulled back with a little smile.

"I'd feel horrible if I took advantage of you," Eames admitted, tugging lightly at the wayward curl snaking across Arthur's forehead. "And unfortunately it appears I'm a bit too sloshed to make good, coherent judgments.

Arthur pouted, scuffing at the floor of the lift with one polished dress shoe. "But I want you to take advantage of me," he muttered, and the instant the lift doors popped open with a bing, he dragged Eames out of the lift with breakneck pace.

* * *

"Jesus, you're in luck I carry rubbers like a self-respecting gentleman," Eames muttered to Arthur, who was smiling giddily up at him amidst his wrinkled linens. "The ones in your nightstand look like they're ancient enough to be put in a museum." After a moment, Eames squinted at Arthur. "Are you planning to take off your clothes? Or ought I to do that for you?"

"I can," Arthur said, hiccupping and giggling. He sat up, looked down at himself with a frown, before beginning to struggle with the buttons. He looked up at Eames haplessly. "How do buttonsh work?"

"Oh, sod the buttons," Eames muttered, bending down and pressing his mouth flush against Arthur's, his hands ripping open Arthur's shirt and sending black and beige buttons pinging all over the floor. "I'll get you another shirt, promise," he mumbled breathlessly, nipping at Arthur's lower lip and letting his hands roam across Arthur's skin. It was smooth, almost silky, and Eames pulled back, bending down to litter Arthur's collarbones with tiny sucks and nips that would stain raspberry in the morning.

Arthur's hands tangled themselves in Eames's hair, tugging the strands into disarray, as Eames kissed his way down Arthur's chest, sucking marks into the milky skin - Arthur's skin tasted fresh, soapy, clean, exactly what he'd expected -, taking a dusky nipple into his mouth and worrying at the pebbled skin lightly with his teeth. Arthur choked back a series of gasps, bringing one hand up to cover his mouth while the other gripped strands of Eames's dark hair between his fingers. Eames was currently nibbling kisses into the skin pulled taut over Arthur's hipbones, and Arthur tugged on his handful of hair, trying to get Eames to move down and a bit to the right, his hips lifting and pressing into his jaw.

"Impatient, aren't you?" Eames asked, his eyes twinkling as he wrapped a hand around Arthur and tugged a slow stroke upwards, rubbing at the weeping head with the flat of his palm; Arthur almost bit through his lip as he watched Eames settle his hand around the base of his cock and lower his mouth onto him, his cheeks hollowing and snugging plush lips around him while his tongue did something positively wicked and horrifyingly pleasing, tracing letters into the head, dipping lightly into the slit, teeth dragging with just the slightest hint of pressure against the skin.

Eames pulled off him after a few minutes with an obscene pop, his lips glistening in the moonlight, and Arthur swallowed roughly, dragging Eames back up to his level to press their mouths together and tasting himself in the crevices of his mouth, a bit salty and bitter.

"I'd like you to turn over, love," Eames said, his voice husky, and a shiver went up Arthur's spine at the commanding tone in his voice. "It'll be easier and more comfortable for you."

Arthur turned over obligingly, propping himself up on his hands and knees, looking over his shoulder at Eames. Eames looked positively predatory, gazing hungrily at Arthur's bare skin, and Arthur almost had time to feel self-conscious before Eames smoothed two large hands over Arthur's hips and there was the pop of a tube of lotion before two broad, slick fingers manoeuvred their way into him, curling and pressing and stroking around curiously. Arthur was about to tell him that it was slightly up and to the right, before Eames found it all on his own, the tip of his middle finger pressing right into it on his next pass. Arthur shuddered, his back dipping, pressing back onto the thick fingers breaching him. Eames drew in a sharp breath, watching Arthur writhe on his hand, and palmed at his cock with the other hand, trying to ignore the pool of heat that was starting to flood the pit of his stomach with need.

"God," Arthur muttered, his voice a half-sob, half-moan, "can you just get in me? I'm stretched enough, I swear to God, just, just please."

"No, darling," Eames soothed, "just a bit more, I don't want to hurt you."

Arthur could have screamed in frustration as Eames paused to slick up a third finger and carefully work it into him, spreading them gloriously wide and gently pumping them in and out, stroking over his prostate with every thrust. The pleasure was racing up Arthur's spine, and he could see himself leaking all over the sheets, aching and breathless and needy, and he took a deep breath and all of a sudden it was too much, it was far too much, and he was going to come -

A hand clamped around the base of his erection, and he squirmed in displeasure, trying to pull away from the constriction.

"Sorry, love," Eames's voice from behind him was raspy. "On the up side, I think you're stretched enough."

Arthur opened his mouth, wanted to inform Eames that he'd been well and truly ready two fingers ago, but his voice was lost in a breathless keen as Eames slotted himself neatly into him. There was a pleasurable burn, heat tingling all through Arthur's insides, and he whimpered as Eames expertly flicked his hips, grinding into Arthur's prostate.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh God," Arthur chanted, sobbing and writhing under Eames's ministrations, his skin tingling and aching wherever he touched, broad hands smoothing themselves over his spine, slick mouth leaving bites all over his skin, a rough thumb rubbing over his lower back, tracing the inked letters there.

"'Veritas?'" Eames asked, his amused tone just the slightest bit breathless, the only indication Arthur had that their activities were affecting him at all. "You got a tramp stamp, and it's 'Veritas'?"

Eames draped his broad form over Arthur's slighter one, leaning forward to nibble at the tip of Arthur's right ear, his right hand reaching around to wrap around Arthur's cock. "On a quest for the truth, are you?" he murmured in between strokes, his thumb collecting the pearls of moisture that gathered at the tip.

"S-something like that," Arthur moaned, "God, don't stop, I'm going to come, please don't stop this time -"

"Well," Eames murmured, "if you really want to know, I'm a trained assassin, and I think I might just be in love with you."

Arthur sobbed, his spine going rigid before his arms gave out and he collapsed into the sheets with a riot of motion, his hips shuddering back and forth, spilling all over the cotton and Eames's fingers, clenching tight and pulsing around him.

"Christ," Eames groaned, his hips snapping forwards once, twice, thrice as he came, Arthur's velvet inner walls milking him through his orgasm. He slumped over Arthur, pressing a series of soft kisses in the hollow of Arthur's shoulder blades before pulling out of Arthur with a soft sigh.

"Do you want a shower?" he asked Arthur. When no response came, he took a closer look at Arthur's face to find that he'd already fallen asleep, his hair curling over his forehead, soft and silky.

He smiled quietly, and went to Arthur's bathroom to find a washcloth to wipe him down with.

* * *

Arthur woke up the next morning, his temples pounding and the sheets crusty beneath him. He frowned as he sat up, the room wobbling slightly around him, wincing at the unprecedented ache in his hips. He stood up carefully, padded towards his bathroom, drew back from the mirror with a horrified gasp as he took in the sight of dozens of small, irregular red marks littering his neck and chest.

He thought about calling a doctor, surely this sort of thing wasn't normal, when he heard the door to his flat open.

Tugging on a pair of boxers and grabbing an old cricket bat from his closet that had seen better days, he cautiously approached the front of his flat. He held his breath as he braced himself against the wall, leaping out from around the corner and nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Alright there?" Eames asked, looking up at him from where he was laying out the contents of a brown paper shopping bag. Fresh melon and a tub of yoghurt were already sitting on the table, and he was currently in the process of slicing some cinnamon bread. "You've got absolutely nothing to eat in this place, did you know that?"

Arthur approached him cautiously, still firmly gripping the cricket bat. Eames just rolled his eyes, smirking, and Arthur suddenly had a vivid memory of those plush lips snugging around him, sucking, dragging, and he clapped a hand to his head, which had started aching worse than ever all of a sudden as the memories of last night came flooding back.

He dropped the cricket bat unceremoniously on the floor, making a mad dash for the bathroom, where he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and heaved up the contents of his stomach. A few moments later, when he was still draped over the white porcelain bowl, he felt fingers carding through his hair and rubbing at his back.

"Better to get it all out before breakfast, I completely agree," Eames said, soothing. "Seems like fresh fruit costs more than petrol these days."

"Did you mean it?" Arthur asked, carefully prying his fingers from their death grip on the porcelain, standing up unsteadily and wobbling over to the sink to brush his teeth.

"Mean what?" Eames inquired, leaning against the counter to watch Arthur.

Arthur spit the toothpaste foam into the sink. "You said you might be in love with me," he said, quite seriously, although Eames found it terribly hard not to laugh at him, what with his mouth covered in mint green foam and all.

"Yes," Eames agreed, wondering if Arthur remembered the first part of that statement. "I did mean that."

"You know nothing about me," Arthur protested. "You don't know what kinds of music I like, or what my favourite type of food is, or whether or not I enjoy gambling."

"Well, Mr. Darling," Eames said, smiling, "you're a fan of Bastille, your favourite food is curry, and...well, I don't actually know whether or not you enjoy gambling." At Arthur's openmouthed stare, he hastened to explain. "I went through your records this morning, and you've got quite a lot of curry takeout menus in your kitchen drawer. I was looking for a bottle opener so I could open the orange juice."

Arthur just stared at him, opening and closing his mouth, rather like a fish with a rather foamy mouth.

"I know we've gone about this a bit backwards, but if that's all you're worried about, we've plenty of time for dates and picnics in the park and trips to the beach, and that way we can get to know each other better."

"I...I'm not quite sure," Arthur hedged, dropping his gaze and staring into the foamy sink. A warm hand settled on his lower back, rubbing at his tattoo.

"Well, you can think about it. I'm certainly not going anywhere." The hand left, and Arthur almost opened his mouth to ask for him to put it back, it felt quite good, but Eames was already at the bathroom door. At the door, he turned, leaning against the frame and catching Arthur's eye in the mirror.

"You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling," he said with a slight smile. "Surely there's got to be something better than working contract law morning to night, then coming home to takeout curry. Just think about it, that's all I'm asking."

* * *

Over breakfast, Arthur contemplated his cinnamon toast and wondered when the last time he'd had something other than oatmeal for breakfast was. He couldn't remember the last time in recent history. Eames was resting his head on one of his hands and absentmindedly dragging a toothpick through some thick yellow egg yolk, drawing swirls and stars and curves.

Arthur cleared his throat, and Eames's attention immediately snapped to him. Arthur couldn't remember the last time in recent history he'd drawn someone's attention so quickly.

"Fine," he said. "I will agree to try and get to know you better."

Eames's smile brightened, and he opened his mouth to say something, when Arthur interrupted him through a mouthful of cinnamon toast.

"But on one condition."

"Yes?" Eames asked, looking positively ecstatic.

"That you never, ever wear paisley again."

He held out his hand across the table. Eames reached out instantly, grabbed his hand, and dragged him nearly halfway across the table into a kiss that had crumbs of toast spilling everywhere.


End file.
